


You know what they're doing in New York?

by iirusu



Series: Who Wants to Live Forever [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Benedict's family owns a diner and he works at it while balancing school, Bisexual Character, Character with tics, Diners, Excessive use of nicknames, He struggles academically but his parents don't have to know that, Heavily implied that they're in a conservative town, Implied bisexual character but the bi is not specifically implied just Queer, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Neurodiversity, New York is mentioned a lot, Original Character(s), Platonic Love, Set in Red Lodge MT, Set in a diner!!!, Snippet of Ben's past life, YES they have pet names for each other, also monroe, diner setting, it's monroe, mentioned character Minnie Hill, neurodivergent character, rated T for language and implied homophobia + violence, set in the 60's, tics, which is a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27907534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iirusu/pseuds/iirusu
Summary: Silence stretches on for a few moments.“Benedict, what do you really want?”He doesn’t know how to articulate it in a way which someone would comprehend. How could he explain what he yearns– no, /burns/– for?
Series: Who Wants to Live Forever [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039818
Kudos: 1





	You know what they're doing in New York?

**Author's Note:**

> More from his past life!!!!! These snippets are proving to be so fun to write so far, I am excited to continue.

“You’re burning for something greater, aren’t you?”

It’s a question that had met him often, whether that be by his own thought or a stranger’s pitying gaze.

“Don’t you mean _yearning,_ Monroe?” Benedict grumbled from under the counter.

Monroe only breathed out an awkward laugh at the sound of his voice and rubbed the back of his neck in the glaring habit Benedict knew well. He didn’t even have to see it, already knew that his friend was doing it just by the shuffling of his coat.

“I just thought, well um, since you live so _fiercely,_ Ben. It’s hard not to use the word _burn_ with you.” Monroe clarified after he’d gone through a round of habits that eventually devolved into tics.

He scrunched his nose unpleasantly at the sound of _Ben **.**_

“ _I thought I told you not to use that nickname with me,”_ he wanted to say. But when he rose up from under the counter, the words caught in his throat– he couldn’t bear to chide Monroe when he saw him rolling through another sequence of tics. So instead of delivering the scolding, he merely rested his elbows against the counter, counting the spots on the weathered surface for a few minutes until his friend pinged the busted bell next to him. The sound resounded through the diner and Benedict lifted his head with a toothy grin at the sight of a smiling, albeit frazzled, Monroe staring back at him.

“I was trying– hey– to, um, tell you that you don’t always look satisfied here, Ben.” Monroe swings himself up onto a stool across from Benedict and nearly slides off when it teeters a bit.

“I thought I told you not to use that nickname with me,” he’s smiling when he says it, pleased that he gets to voice his thought from earlier, and well, he can’t be mad for long when Monroe’s staring at him with those big doe eyes.

“Sorry, dolly,” he flushes a bit at his indiscretion, “but, I– um did– really did want to ask. Are you going to leave someday?”

Benedict ruffles his hair.

“Someday, ‘Romy. But I’ll go with you and Francis, yeah? We can go to Europe, visit all of those museums that Fran rambles on about at home. I don’t really know much about it, but I’m sure I could read on it.” It’s a tender response, one he’s practiced well for Monroe, although it is a bit of a stretch. He can’t actually read that well.

Monroe smiles at this, eyes soft and full of a trust that Benedict treasures. He’s such a courteous boy, all naive and sanguine, brimming with questions that don’t go unsaid for long. Ben’s always loved having him over, hearing him out on everything he’d like to say, everything he’s got built up in that head of his, and he’s always felt honored that the diner was Monroe’s safest space. For both him and Francis, it was a place where nothing had to be kept hidden.

Benedict wished he had such a place, too.

“I want,” he stops to jerk his head sharply, “to– well I– to know what you actually want to do, Benedict.” Monroe’s voice clearly drips with frustration and adamance.

“I want to go to Europe with you and Francis,” he lets his arms down from the countertop to step away from Monroe and tend to something from behind it in a subconscious move of avoidance.

“You don’t.” It sounds convicting.

“I do,”

“You always look– look, look– you look like you’re always shouldering something unimaginable. Ben, dolly, what– um, what are you thinking?”

Silence stretches on for a few moments.

“Benedict, what do you really want?”

  
  
He doesn’t know how to articulate it in a way which Monroe would understand. How could he? To say that he craves something more, something all his, to abandon this small town and free himself? How can he tell his baby ‘Romy that he yearns– no, _burns–_ to live his truth?

How can he tell him that truth?

He’s starting to decide that he can’t tell him, not ever, when Monroe slams his hands down on the table and purses his lips in an obvious effort to suppress a head jerk. _“He’s smarter than you think,”_ his brain asserts when he catches the cogs turning in ‘Romy’s head.

“I’m– ambitious,” the words have left before he’s even processed it.

Maybe, now is the time.

“I want to leave this diner to Minnie and go up to New York, start a riot,” he takes a shaky step that creaks with the weathered floorboards, leaning into Monroe’s space on the counter. 

“And live my fucking life.”

He’s glaring at Monroe with an unwavering intensity despite his trembling, apprehension creeping up his spine with the knowledge that he’d just told someone in _Red Lodge_ that he wants to _leave,_ and go to _New York,_ of all places. If someone else hears about this, Benedict would be beaten within an inch of his life, he’s sure. He loves Monroe, not a shred of doubt in his mind about that, but he’s still high-strung, distrusting. You had to learn to be distrusting when you were like him, when you lived in a town like Red Lodge.

“Benny,” his friend’s voice snaps him out of his tangled thoughts, and he swallows down the lump in his throat when he can’t hear any particular emotion in it.

He holds his breath.

“You can do it.” Monroe’s face splits into a grin, "You can do it, Benny." He lets out a few hums when Benedict’s shoulders relax with the sentiment.

When the initial shock’s died down Benedict mirrors his beaming visage and clasps Monroe’s hands in his– gripping tight, to which Monroe wordlessly matches with his own vice– and allows them both a few seconds to calm down. He feels giddy. Like he’s going to cry, even. So he allows them the due to come down from the bubbling excitement together and just breathe, until the only sounds to be registered is the fan whirring up above and the kitchen’s oven chirring quite gravely, as it always is.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Ben urges after the silence, gripping impossibly tighter onto Monroe’s poor, uncalloused hands.

“I know– think, I think– um, why you would– to– would start a riot.”

Benedict takes a few seconds to process the sentence, the words jumbled by Monroe’s excitement. _“Don’t tell anyone,”_ he repeats once he’s gotten it.

“Never, dolly, never.” He’s still smiling.

Benedict breathes out a sigh of relief he didn’t even really know he was holding, and he slumps forward into Monroe’s arms, even though the angle is awkward with the counter between them. Monroe’s hands find their way into Benedict's hair immediately, and he twirls the strands around to his liking until there’s a knock on the front door of the diner. It startles Ben enough that he jerks his head upward, clipping Monroe in the chin in a collision that has the poor boy tipping out of his chair and crashing into the floor, with Benedict not much better off, having been struck by a handle behind him.

There’s snickering from outside, tenor full of that unmistakable mirth, and Benedict groans– both from the pain and recognition– and circles around the countertop to help Monroe up before turning his attention to the door. It’s Francis outside, just as he anticipated.

“Here right on time!” Francis exclaims the second Ben’s opened the door.

“Monroe's been here since 4:30,” Benedict deadpans.

“Right on time!”

Monroe laughs from behind them so he decides to let it go, stepping aside after Francis kicks off the snow on the step to let him in. The two always accompanied Benedict in the morning when he opened the diner– sometimes even before then, like today, when Monroe let himself in at the crack of dawn to help set up for the day– and Benedict was grateful for the company despite his grumbling.

Francis began rambling about the new books he’d been given by his sister, as he always did, and Benedict tuned out this week’s dose of ghost lore and ancient Egyptian architecture while Monroe and Francis talked and gave each other the occasional shove. 

He tuned it out, until Monroe asked the forbidden question, just as he'd feared he would.

“Can we, um, go to New York, instead of Europe?”

Benedict damn near dropped the entire collection of glasses in his arms at the words _New York,_ and Francis only blinked at the young boy in confusion. He had to scramble to the closest countertop and heave the entire set onto it before he could shrivel up and die in an embarrassment that he had yet to explain to Francis.

Noticing Francis’s reaction, but not Benedict’s, Monroe quickly clarified, “It, um, seems cooler.”

“Monty! How could New York possibly get you more jazzed than Europe? There’s like, probably not even any art. No art museums, ‘Romy! Could you imagine?” Francis seems appalled that anyone would pass up an opportunity to live surrounded by old art and architecture.

Something about this stirs indignation in Benedict’s gut.

“You know, they, uh,” he clams up a bit when they both turn to him. “They– have art in New York, too. Like, diverse crowds with their own art and threads.”

Francis stays quiet as he seems to consider this. The silence kills Ben, though, so opens his stupid mouth again.

“I suggested it first. New York, I mean. I want to go there.”

He cringes inwardly when Francis’s eyes widen and his hand comes down from where it’s rested on his chin. But then Francis steps forward until he, too, is leaned against the counter, and Benedict can’t tell if the tension is something that he’s created in his own mind or if it’s something that’s very, very real.

“You know what they’re doing in New York?” Francis’s voice is low and somewhat assertive.

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“I– for fucks sake, Fran, I want to be a part of it.”

It seems like it takes a few seconds for this to register with Francis– a few, positively _excruciating_ seconds for Ben– before he’s smiling all toothy and wide and throwing his arms over the counter to pull Benedict into a hug that nearly topples the glasses stacked haphazardly next to them. A shout of surprise leaves Ben before he’s even able to stop it, and he is once again reminded of how awkward hugs over the counter are with these two.

“I love you, this is awesome,” Ben can hear the smile in Francis’s voice despite the angle obscuring his face from view.

“So, New York, then?” Benedict asks, a twinge of hope in his chest.

“Yeah, New York.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pieces I listened to while creating this work:
> 
> What You Know - Two Door Cinema Club (From "Tourist History")
> 
> HOME;RUN - SEVENTEEN (From ";[Semicolon]")


End file.
